


Whispers would deafen me now

by Fayet



Series: be the thing that buries me [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Animal Traits, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel Needs a Hug (The Witcher), First Love, Geralt's Second Trial, Grave digging, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Post-Trial Injuries, Relationship Study, The Trauma of Healing and Coming to Terms with Change, Witcher Trials, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26356054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: It's a wonderful autumn day and Geralt is gone, having left sometime in the early morning, slowly untangling his body from Eskel's embrace and creeping out of the room, perfectly silent. He left. He won't come back.Eskel had known the day would come, but he had counted on Geralt to tell him.Part of the series exploring the changing relationship between Eskel and Geralt from first love through the horror of the second trials and onwards; includes previous world-building but stands as independent story to be read on its own.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: be the thing that buries me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882180
Comments: 36
Kudos: 61





	Whispers would deafen me now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/gifts).



> Quick disclaimer: canon about the trials is rather vague. We know a couple of things from the games, but I've decided to ignore most of them, so we're not looking at children being send out to get killed by monsters here. Both Geralt and Eskel are young adults (more or less), too. That being said, the usual dark angst warning applies, as I do beat Geralt up physically and Eskel emotionally. Also includes memories of a difficult childhood in Kaer Morhen including physical punishment, assumed impending character death and grave digging. Mind the tags, as there will be blood.
> 
> Besides being Part 3 of the series run by stillmadaboutpetra and me this is supposed to function well as a stand alone. All stories in the series are based on each other and have a coherent arc exploring Eskel and Geralt's relationship as we dreamt it up, but they are still individual works, so they function nicely on their own. Obviously I can't recommend stillmadaboutpetra's stories in this series enough, as they are utterly brilliant (and very different from what I'm doing here). 
> 
> I stole some themes and dialogue from stillmadaboutpetra (with permission) and my own longer fic "Hibernating with ghosts", but don't let that bother you.
> 
> Titel taken from the Glass Animal song "It's all so incredibly loud".

Eskel awakes alone, stretched out comfortably. For a moment he blinks in the mild morning light, sun falling through the windows. He can hear movement in the courtyard, the horses being led to the paddocks, probably by one of the older adepts helping Wigo. Soon there'll be the shouts of boys running around, training, footsteps in the sand, commands from the drill grounds. 

The bed is still warm, but Geralt is already gone. Rolling onto his stomach Eskel unfolds his body to its full length, feet hanging over the straw mattress. Pulling himself even longer he holds the tension for a moment before exhaling and letting go, feeling the calm of his mind. Through the window he can smell the morning, a fresh breeze from the mountains, water from the Gwenllech, the forest crisp and still partially green this early in autumn, scents from the kitchen and the innumerable bodies living together in the fortress. 

His sheets have the smell of Geralt clinging to them, the exact shape of his body still somehow visible to Eskel's eyes in the way the bedclothes are twisted. Burying his head in the pillow Eskel inhales deeply, pulling their mingled scents into his lungs, filling the very last corners, until his diaphragm expands almost painfully. He wants to keep the nights' remnants there like a secret, but he has to exhale, to let go. 

Pushing himself upwards he sits back on his heels, folds, arms stretched forward, working his way through the strong muscles of his back. His body is still a delight to him, new in so many ways despite being a few month old now, thick muscles powerful and unrelenting. Stretching his back calmly until he feels his vertebrae finding the space between them he breathes into the opening, feeling himself grow longer and taller still, his calm power slowly awakening. Eskel thrives on being a predator, a dangerous thing, bright and shining and strong. It fits his image of himself as something that can still grow beyond anything imaginable. He is alive and the possibilities are endless.

His magic prickles a little in his fingertips and he sits up. The stone floor is cold under his feet as he wanders over to his washing bowl. Cold water on his face, clothes over his glorious body and a glance back at the bed with its twisted sheets, and he's humming as he's making his way down towards the kitchen. He's late, the kitchen already empty besides Bogumil, who's at the table spooning his kasha. Everybody else seems to be gone already, the adepts are not allowed here and the older witchers still out on the path at this time of the year. In passing Eskel realises that Vesemir has not woken him this morning, or rather them, no knock on the door throwing Geralt and him out of bed, pulling them from whatever shape they had twisted their limbs into trying to fit into a bed that is made for one witcher and not for two. During the hot summer nights Eskel thought he'd melt like this, Geralt's skin burning from the sunshine of the past day and his own body heat, both of them slippery with their sweat and flowing into each other, undulating shapes without any firm contour anymore.

"Morning, Eskel. Took the chance with everybody busy to sleep in a bit?"

Bogumil sounds light-hearted enough but there is something in his always scratchy voice that makes Eskel stop in his tracks, his hands already reaching out for the bread sitting on the counter. It's a friendly jest but Bogumil looks at him as if he's wondering, as if Eskel should be behaving differently. As if he knows something Eskel does not. 

"Nice morning it is for sure. What do you mean, everybody busy?"

Bogumil tilts his head a little, his old face a ruin of wrinkles and scars. There is wonder in his amber eyes and then pity, as if he realises he'll hurt Eskel in a moment and does not particularly feel the pleasure of it. 

"I thought you knew. Thought he told you, since you were, well."

Bogumil straightens his head again, sits up and then goes back to his kasha, and Eskel drops his arm at the same time his stomach suddenly plummets, the solid stones he stands on becoming unreliable as the ground shakes. The twisting of his organs is so painful he has to lean forward to use the counter for support. He forgets to breathe and then remembers he needs oxygen when his lungs make him gasp for air like a fish on dry ground, wiggling on the banks of a river dying slowly. 

Everybody is busy. Vesemir had not come to wake him. Geralt is gone, having left sometime in the early morning, slowly untangling his body from Eskel's embrace and creeping out of the room, perfectly silent. He left. He won't come back. 

Eskel had known the day would come, but he had counted on Geralt to tell him. They didn't keep secrets from each other and for a split second Eskel feels betrayed. It's wrong and he knows it, but he can't push the thought away. His mind is racing backwards, through their last days. They had both known that Geralt would be forced through a second round of mutagenes, that the zealot mages looking for new ways to create witchers were taking a chance on him after he'd walked out of the trials in better shape than most did. He'd recovered too quickly from the horrors they had inflicted onto him and it had given them ideas, made things seem possible that usually were not. 

Most new witchers came out of their trials barely conscious, bloody and broken. Everybody was ordered to get up and walk, and nobody ever did. Nobody except Geralt who, according to Vesemir, had dragged himself off the table and walked, all the way through the corridor until he had reached the staircase up where he had finally collapsed, condemning himself to another trial with his very own actions. They had both known it would happen, had known from the day the mages and Vesemir had appeared on the drill grounds and taken Geralt aside, told him, taken his silver sword and medallion away again. He wasn't done, not a proper wolf witcher yet, despite his amber eyes and easy strength. 

But they hadn't told them when, or at least they hadn't told Eskel. And Geralt hadn't told Eskel either, though he must have known, and for how long? Their last night together, gentle and comfortable, and Eskel would have never imagined that this is how Geralt would say goodbye to him. He remembers the last kiss, already half asleep, Geralt's lips on his, his heartbeat so close, Eskel's name on his tongue. Geralt slipped out of bed and into the horror of another round of mutations bearing the marks Eskel left on his body the previous nights, smelling of their pleasure just like Eskel's sheets still did, taking the memory with him but not waking Eskel. He went alone, silently, without a word.

Bogumil looks up at Eskel's strangled noise, and then shakes his head and goes back to his kasha. There is nothing he can offer anyway. 

As if he were being pulled on strings Eskel turns away and leaves the kitchen. He climbs upwards, retracing his steps, and before he knows he's back in his room and falls into the bed, buries his face in the pillows and inhales again. Their mingled scents flow into his nose, and Eskel breathes, breathes in as deeply as he can, wants to lock this in his memories forever because it will fade and he will forget like he has already forgotten so much, his memory riddled with holes ever since the trials. They will not repeat this night. Geralt is gone. 

Nobody has survived experimental mutations so far, and they both knew it. Geralt was jesting when he said he'd run away, but Eskel wasn't, secretly planning. They could leave, take two horses and go, onto the Path together as they had promised each other sometime this summer, when the sun had been warm and strong and life had seemed like a well of opportunities and not like something that would be ripped from Geralt again so quickly. 

They could have left, but Geralt refused. His prickly pride, the burning confidence, the idiocy of his claim that maybe he'd survive and then what, Eskel, what then - but Eskel has read the books and talked to the old witchers, and nobody knew anyone who'd ever survived. Why should Geralt, idiotic Geralt be the first? Stronger than he looks, but even stones can break under the right amount of pressure. 

So Eskel lies in his bed and tries to breathe while his body shudders in shockwaves he can't name. His mind is going back and back, to the moments barely a few hours ago where he was lying there, peacefully asleep, and down in the basement they were busy wrapping steel shackles around Geralt's wrists and ankles.

The day is the longest in Eskel's life, every minute a precise torture. Nobody comes to remind him of training hours. Vesemir and Wigo are both down in the basement, watching the zealot mages conducting the experiment rip Geralt apart, turning his skin into parchment, letting his warm blood seep into the stone floors to cool there and dry. Eskel can't focus. His mind races down, towards the basement and back to his own trials. He remembers the scents, the metal in the air, blood and iron, chains and heavy bolts over the door. He can still hear his own voice breaking, creaking as he begs for anything, for help, for Geralt, for death. Everybody begs for death in their trials, and Eskel was no exception. He assumes Geralt is not one, either. 

Sometime in the afternoon he stands on the stairs leading down towards the basement wanting to go down, and being unable to. He can't. The metal door is heavy and properly shut, and he won't hear the pleas and sobs, but his mind supplies them easily. He can hear Geralt's voice already screamed hoarse, body straining against the chains, a hand buried to the elbow in his living and twisting flesh, rearranging organs and bones, tearing, destroying to rebuild. In Eskel's mind Geralt's voice is begging, calling out, and Eskel has to force himself to turn around and walk back, lead in his limbs. 

He goes to bed early that night, twists and turns in the sheets that are slowly loosing their scent of Geralt. The night outside is calm and soft with an early autumn breeze, but Eskel's mind is burning, supplying him with an endless line of images. They are fed by his own experience, the pain and the fever, the desperation, the final surrender and the fall into black nothingness that could be death or a new life. 

He doesn't notice falling asleep, but in his dreams he is eleven, maybe twelve, and they are in their dormitory, all beds occupied on a cold winter night where the blankets are too thin and the fire at the far end of the long room too weak. Geralt is pasted to his side, thin body shaking with shivers from a fever raking through him, coughing. Boys die all the time in winter at Kaer Morhen, but Eskel holds him warm and close and hums the stupid lullaby he still remembers, and Geralt is disgusting in his sickness but murmuring Eskel's name as he falls asleep, and - "you're not leaving, are you" - and Eskel shakes his head and promises - "no, you idiot, sleep, I'll be here when you wake up" - and Geralt hums again and falls silent as he drifts off into uneasy sleep.

It's a quiet image but it blurs, and Eskel twists in his sheets to a voice crying his name, nothing but that - Eskel, Eskel! - a tiny voice, young and too high pitched, and Eskel does not even know where it comes from. 

The second day it rains outside and Eskel tries to keep busy. He does his laundry, he volunteers to scrub the kitchen, he cleans the stable and at the end of the day he falls into bed without having touched his swords for an entire day with his head throbbing and his vision flickering. The thin voice comes back that night, less demanding. Tearfully it pleads, begs, nothing but one word - Eskel, Eskel - all night long. 

The third day is a blur with more rain against the windows and Eskel thinking he can smell blood on the stale air in the entrance hall. This night it's Geralt's grown-up voice in his head, slurred and heavy, barely comprehensible, but Eskel can still make out his name. But it's fading out, slowly vanishing, as if Geralt is far away already. In Eskel's dreams he's covered in dark Kaedwen earth, his calls muffled. Eskel kneels in the dirt and it's raining and he's digging, bare hands to heavy soil, trying to find the body he knows is down there. Water hammers down on him and he's drenched, but he keeps on clawing his way downwards, towards the heartbeat in his ear that matches his own perfectly, the voice far away urging him on, always the same fading whisper in his ears - Eskel, Eskel. He awakes shaking with his entire body trembling, the sheets around him drenched in sweat. 

On the fourth day Eskel leaves Kaer Morhen. The rain has stopped and the forest feels like its been freshly laundered. Eskel wants to spend the entire day walking, trying to get away from the fortress and the voice that slowly fades from his mind. Passing the graveyard he notices that there is no fresh grave yet, no wood stacked for a pyre. Rushing past Eskel tries to exhale and then to replace the stale, blood-scented air of the fortress with fresh, clean oxygen. His sword solidly on his back he runs, splashing through the shallow bed of the Gwenllech and disappearing into the woods on the other side of the river, not even following the trail, breaking through the underwood. The trees around him are tinted in the first fiery red of autumn.

He only stops when he has to after having run for what feels like hours, heart hammering in his chest and lungs heaving. Around him it's perfectly silent, birdsong having died away. There's something like a little clearing in the forest here, thorny bushes around. The autumn light filters through the canopies above him and for a split second Eskel stands and tries to breathe, thinking he needs to wait for Geralt who has to be hot at his heels, will break through the low hanging branches every second now, half the forest stuck to his unruly curls, laughing and shouting - wait for me, brother! 

Of course nobody comes. Eskel is alone with the air rushing in and out of his lungs and the unnatural silence. 

It's his hearing that alerts him to the beast first. The growling is distant but drawing closer, and when he tilts his head and listens into the distance he can feel the vibrations of the monster moving, approaching. The birds are not silent for Eskel, they have fled for a different type of predator altogether. Then Eskel smells it, putrid stink sticking to matted fur. With a sigh he draws silver, poised, waiting. There is no fear in him. 

The warg appears through the undergrowth seconds later, already halfway in its attack, rushing forward. Like Eskel has noticed the beast the creature has scented him, and in the split second as it lunges forward Eskel wonders what he smells like, if the creatures still picks up on the traces of Geralt left on his body or if his brother's scent is already gone and all that remains is Eskel, alone in this just like in everything now. 

It's a quick fight, three fast steps to the left to avoid the first attack, a quick turn and a well-measured swing of the heavy blade when the beast charges once more and the warg's head lies on the floor by Eskel's feet. Grunting he looks down, the hot blood seeping into the forest floor, putrid smell increasing. The blood is heavy in the air, iron and maybe copper, the beast's anger palpable. Eskel's heartbeat is slightly faster than usually but there is no adrenalin in his blood. Unimpressed he looks at his sword, crimson running down the fuller carved into the middle of the blade. It's not the first warg Eskel has taken down, by far not his first kill, and yet his blade still looks untouched. The silver is perfectly pure and shining in the soft autumn light, heavy in his hand and already familiar. 

It's not the first monster but it is the first Eskel takes down on his own, completely alone in the forest with nobody near. The last time he'd been hunting with Geralt, sent out by Vesemir with clear instructions to get some blood on their swords and clear the forest of a few beasts, and together they had ventured into the woods for a few days of sleeping outside and wandering the valley, and of course taken not too long to be attacked by a pack. It had been a series of shorts fights and standing over the dead warg now Eskel remembers the sounds, the scents, the aftermath, both of them moving gracefully amongst the felled bodies, Geralt at the other end of that clearing on that day. 

Keeping his eyes to the ground Eskel remembers and imagines that, if he just doesn't look up, Geralt will be there again, standing tall and perfectly balanced, gleam of silver in his hand, proud and capable. He'll shake the blood from his blade and say something stupid and they'll wipe their swords and make grim comments about having to clean them properly soon, and they'll talk about blade oil while drawing their daggers to slice trophies off the dead beasts, something to bring back to Kaer Morhen to affirm they have made good on what they were ordered to do, furs and skulls to brag with just a little. 

But Geralt's silver sword is lying somewhere on a shelf gathering dust, and when Eskel has to finally succumb to reality and look up the clearing is empty besides the dead warg. So he shakes the blood off his blade and curses at himself and has nobody to talk to about that perfect swing, and he turns and leaves the clearing without taking a trophy. Nobody cares for this monster. 

This night Eskel does not dream. He falls into dark emptiness and he awakes the next morning believing that Geralt has stopped calling for him because he has now, finally, died. He's close to hysterics waking up and then remembers his training. Sinking from the bed to the floor he folds his knees under himself and sits, upright, tall. His palms fall on his knees and he tries to find his calm, his heartbeat loud in his ears. As he has been taught he looks at the emotion, inspects it from all sides. It's not fear, for he cannot be afraid anymore. He looks at it, turns it around. It takes him many measured inhales and exhales to see that he's looking at loneliness, at loss, at grief. Looking at it does not make it less real, but somehow manageable. As he has been taught he runs his hands over the emotion, quietly moulding it. Under his strong palms it becomes round instead of a spiked thing that hurts his stomach and sticks in his throat, and as it changes shape it sinks lower into his body, settles somewhere in his lower abdomen. He can leave it there, digest it. It's not in his blood anymore this way, not clouding his mind. It doesn't vanish but he's lighter like this, still functional.

He breathes and keeps on breathing, and like this he goes into his day. Looking out of the window of the corridor that leads away from his room he looks down over the lower courtyards onto the meadows and see the horses and the overgrown graveyard, and again there is no fresh grave yet, no pyre set. The round shape in his stomach tries to bulge, but he does not let it, breathing through the moment instead.

Outside he blinks into the autumn sun and walks over to the drill grounds. Setting the pendulum into motion and pulling his steel blade he considers blindfolding himself, but decides to first warm up properly. Winding his way around the beating arms and landing precise blows on the dummy at the end delights him, as always making him find glee in his speed and strength. He inhales deeply, fresh morning air in his lungs, and evades another swing from the pendulum. 

An hour later he's got a fine layer of sweat over his skin and then there's Bogumil standing next to the machine, looking up. Eskel jumps down easily, gracefully and silently landing on his feet. Bogumil nods approvingly at his sword in lieu of a comment on his work on the pendulum and then gives Eskel a glance out of old eyes. 

"Go up to Geralt's room."

There's nothing in his voice betraying why he's saying that, but suddenly the round shape in Eskel's abdomen explodes and without a word he takes off, sword still in hand. There's nobody there when he reaches Geralt's room, same corridor as his own is on, and he takes the time to stop by his room and leave his sword there stored properly, by now not doing it because he'd get a beating otherwise but because he has learnt that this blade is his lifeline and his livelihood, and that without it he is nothing. 

When he returns to Geralt's room there is still nobody there. Eskel leaves the door open and starts to pace, arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes glide over the familiar furniture, the very few things Geralt owns. There's nothing there to catch Eskel's eye because everything is already well-worn in for his glance, and he finds his eyes restlessly sweeping the room. The pulsating shape in his body is no longer round, and Eskel looks inwards and focuses to start moulding it again when he hears steps on the stone floors outside, multiple people walking fast, Vesemir followed by the mages. Suddenly his slow heartbeat speeds up, and the shape slides from his hands. Something is in his blood, something he does not recognise. 

There's voices in the corridor, the zealot mages arguing with Vesemir, and before Eskel can comprehend what is happening Vesemir is through the door followed by the two mages arguing with him, their voices pitched high in their disconcertment. They are visibly exasperated yet powerless to intervene, but Eskel has no mind for their anxiety, is unable to tear his eyes away from Vesemir and the burden he carries, the words uttered lost to him. Only splinters of the conversation lodge in his mind and it's what Vesemir says that suddenly sucks the air from Eskel's lungs - 

" - now he's mine again and I won't have him die alone in the dark." 

\- and the suction is so strong Eskel can barely stand but he has to, stand and stare at Geralt's body hanging in Vesemir's arms, somehow brutally dragged along and gently cradled at the same time. Vesemir marches through the room past Eskel and deposits Geralt on the bed and all Eskel can do is stare and stare, and he cannot think or talk because the shape in his body has suddenly grown horns and fangs and is tearing at his nerves, ripping his thoughts apart, claws at his vocal cords. 

There is no doubt about what Vesemir means. Eskel watches him arrange the lifeless limbs, pillows under Geralt's head and shoulders to lift him in a slightly elevated position. He's moving around Geralt with surprising care and ill-concealed tenderness, and it quickly becomes clear that whatever Eskel imagined to have happened in the basement was an understatement, that it must have been a hundredfold worse. Eskel has not seen Geralt come out of the first trials, does not remember coming out of them himself. He was unconscious for the first days most of the time and when he awoke he lay in the comfortable darkness of an underground room, washed and dressed in clean clothes, his body having mostly pieced itself together already. He does not know who took care of him while he was knocked out, but watching Vesemir arrange Geralt on the bed it dawns on him that it must have been him, too.

Geralt, here and now lying on the bed, has not been washed and dressed in fresh clothes. He's wearing the usual undershirt and breeches, everything torn, soiled by dark blood and sweat and Eskel does not know what. His shirt isn't tied up properly, his chest covered in gashes and blood, pale skin barely visible through all the dried and fresh crimson. He's barefoot and both his ankles and wrists are torn, skin and flesh missing, and Eskel knows that these were the places he was chained to the table, because he remembers the steel cuffs closing around his own flesh and skin not many month ago. Geralt, no longer an adept falling into unconsciousness quickly but a witcher with the strength of one, must have torn on the chains so forcefully that the metal has taken the skin away and embedded itself into the flesh as his body was clinging to consciousness, torturing itself.

Phantom pain rushes through Eskel like lightening, but he forces himself to remain completely still. His eyes crawl over Geralt's body, upwards to his face. He's blindfolded and where there's no dark fabric wrapped around his head there's so much blood on him, on his chin, on his lips bitten painfully raw. Streams of dried blood seem to have run down from underneath the fabric as if he had cried red tears at some point, and underneath it his skin seems porcelain white, all the tan the summer sun had given him gone. For some perverse reason Eskel looks and looks and thinks about marble pale Geralt tilting his head in sorrow and weeping crimson, and the image is beautiful until the body on the bed tries to breathe and Eskel hears the lung damage for the first time. 

It's a terrifying sound, an agonised, painful fight for air, and Eskel sees blood well up on Geralt's lips, little bubbles of it in the corner of his mouth. 

Eskel thinks he will shatter and he doesn't, and then he stares at the blood on Geralt's lips and knows that he will die of this, because nobody survives blood in their lungs for long, not even a witcher. Eskel stares and stares and Geralt tries to breathe, tries valiantly and barely manages to, and Eskel tears his gaze from his bloodied lips and suddenly realises that the hair stuck to Geralt's skull, matted with sweat and blood isn't auburn anymore but has lost all its colour, turned bone white and marrow grey, as if someone had decided to let Geralt age before he died, and if he had to die soon he'd have to age quicker. 

Another gasp for air and there's conversation around him, but Eskel cannot hear a word. He cannot hear anything but Geralt trying so hard to live and being unable to, and he wants to breathe for him but can't, not even once, no matter how hard he tries. 

Vesemir looks at him and suddenly tells him to stay and Eskel nods without understanding. Vesemir leaves and the mages finally do, too, and Eskel is alone and wants to reach out, but doesn't dare to. There's talk outside and then Vesemir is back. 

"Right. You understand why you're here?"

Eskel does not, but he nods anyway. 

"Your heard what they said. We will have to wait for three days." He's looking down, shaking his head as Geralt tries to breathe again. "Useless suffering."

He moves, pulling a slim blade from his belt and throwing it at Eskel, who catches it by reflex and without wanting to. He needs a second to return to reality, but the metal in his hands is cold and grounds him like only a blade can. To do something he turns the slim dagger in his hands and then pulls the blade from the sheath, noticing the ornamental decoration, the wonderful and precise craftsmanship. It's the sharpest and thinnest dagger Eskel has ever seen, unfamiliar. The blade glints in the light, silver like Eskel's sword but more worn in. 

It takes a few seconds, and then something in his brain connects and he recoils, wanting to drop the dagger but not doing it because he's a witcher and a witcher does not drop a blade.

"You're not telling me - " 

He begins the sentence, but he can't finish it, looking at Vesemir, pleading for a clue that whatever he is thinking is only proof to the fact that his mind is truly fucked up. 

Vesemir does not answer. He only looks at Eskel and the dagger and raises an eyebrow, and Eskel understands. Geralt coughs, more blood welling up on his lips. Useless suffering. Eskel wants to throw the dagger on the ground and howl, but of course he doesn't. 

"I'm not going to put a silver dagger through his heart."

They have joked about it, Eskel putting his silver through Geralt's heart, but this - this is joking turned into bitter reality, and Eskel wants to eat his words, chew on them, swallow them down so they can rot in his stomach and be torn apart by the acid now in his throat. 

"You're a witcher, Eskel. Do your job. I'll show you how it works, it's not difficult."

For a second the blade seems to fuse into Eskel's palm, knuckles whitening over it. He wants to kill something that is not Geralt and cannot, and then the silver seems to burn in his hand and he has to resheathe the blade. He does so and throws it back to Vesemir, needing it out of his hands. His whole body is trembling. 

"I didn't know you were so thin-skinned."

Vesemir shakes his head and sounds disappointed and Eskel remembers all the moments they have been chided for their unruly behaviour in the past month, all the looks of reproach. They tried to break the rules, and Vesemir warned them they would not, and now he's making sure they can't. Eskel is so angry he can feel himself heave, his vision clouding over for a moment.

"But you don't have to worry, he won't make it that far. Three days is a long time with injuries like this."

It's a lesson, Eskel realises when the shadows in front of his eyes fade again, a useful lecture in proper behaviour for a witcher. Geralt's death is a lesson for Eskel, a lesson only Vesemir can deliver. See where your feelings bring you, boy. Look at him. 

If Eskel hadn't kissed Geralt in the courtyard two weeks ago Vesemir would not have put the silver dagger into his hands, he realises. They no longer punish them with whips and slaps, those would not be sharp and painful enough and their skin would only heal quickly. There are other things now.

And to remind Eskel of the lesson Vesemir puts the dagger onto the little table next to the bed, reaches into his pocket and takes out the wolf's head medallion that sat on Geralt's chest until a few weeks ago and then got taken from him when they informed him of the impending second mutation. It lies there in a heap of silver, and Eskel remembers kissing the skin it used to live on in the cool shadow of a forest. 

"Well, you can stay here. If you want to you can bandage his wrists and clean him a bit, but it's pointless anyway. He's been coughing blood for days now."

Vesemir's amber eyes remain impassive as he brushes them over Geralt's frantically heaving chest. 

"Call me when it's over. But should he wake and beg for death don't give in. Remember we have to wait for three days, it's part of the agreement."

Then he turns to leave, and Eskel wants to say so many things that don't make sense, wants to howl like the wolf he is and throw himself on the bed and cover Geralt's bones with his body. Instead he only clears his throat, firmly putting mental hands onto the shape throbbing inside him.

"Why silver?"

Any dagger would have done, but Vesemir turns around, and looks at Geralt who takes the opportunity to cough again, a small red trickle running down his chin through the rough patches of now white stubble. 

"Because steel would no longer work."

With that he's gone, leaving Eskel alone with Geralt sobbing for air and the silver dagger on the little table. For a moment he simply stands there, staring. His mind is blank, all possibilities sucked out by what has happened. 

Then he tightens the grasp over the shape that still pulsates in his body and firmly presses down. In calm and controlled movements he brushes over the spikes and fangs, smoothes the cracked surface, breathes. There is nothing he can do. In passing he feels anger rearing its head, dark and ugly, threatening to break through the surface. It feeds on the smell of Geralt's blood in the air of the room, the stale remnants of scents clinging to his body, fear and desperation, vomit and sweat, and beyond that something earthy Eskel cannot quite name. There is so much magical residue on Geralt's skin that even Eskel, much more used to magic and attuned into the chaos living inside his own body is dizzy with it.

He turns around for respite, looks out of the window, Morhen valley drenched in a late autumn sun. He breathes, once, twice, and then finally understands it is death that is weighing down the air, the heavy smell he could not place the same one he had noticed when he had passed the fresh graves in spring. Grow and decay, dark Kaedwen earth weighing down thin and broken bodies put to rest underneath. There is no earth weighing Geralt down, no flame licking for his white bones turning them charred black yet, but he is dying and there is nothing Eskel can do against it. 

Mechanically he brushes his fingers over the rough stone of the window sill, feeling it catch on his callouses. Another deep breath, death filling his lungs, and he turns around. He is a witcher. There are things to do. 

So he does them. 

He fetches water, clean rags, bandages. He's cleaned Geralt's wounds so many time growing up, patched him back together after punishments with whips and sticks, after training mishaps or accidents of their own making, and there is nothing different in what he is doing now besides the finality of it, the realisation that he is preparing Geralt for his grave and not another round of sword practice. He works meticulously and slowly, focused, carefully avoiding to look at Geralt as a whole but fixing all of his attention on the spot he is currently cleaning. Taking Geralt apart like this makes it more bearable, turns him into manageable pieces, bloodied feet and wrists, collarbones smeared with sweat and dried crimson, cheekbones tinted dark, thin lips devoid of colour. 

The idea comes to him as he is rearranging Geralt's shirt, looking at the cleaned wounds on his chest. For a moment Eskel follows the line of the cut with his finger tip, feeling the rise and fall of Geralt's ribcage, his slow and faint heartbeat. He thinks there's a tremor under his hands as he touches the pale skin, and he remembers the magic residing in Geralt's body rising up to meet the chaos in Eskel's own blood. There is no reaction of this sort now, as if everything that usually flares to life under Eskel's touch is asleep deep within Geralt, sunken into layers so low it cannot be touched anymore. 

But Eskel's own magic awakens to the unintended call, and he can feel it gather. Out of habit he wants to push it down and then suddenly changes his mind. On the spur of the moment he instead calls more of it to the surface, the same feeling as if he were about to cast a sign, chaos rising upwards to be used. He can bend it to his will in his signs, turn it into fire or force, so why not conduct it into his fingertips and try for a healing spell? 

Closing his eyes he focuses and tries to think clearly, feeling the twist in his body of the power he's calling upwards from deep within himself. Eskel isn't a mage, he can't draw the chaos from his surroundings. Everything he uses has to come from himself, has to be already there. But he knows his blood is rich with power, and the trials seem to have broken down the dam. There's more magic in his veins now than there has ever been before, a power he hasn't tried out yet. He can't fathom the depth and width of it, can't measure it, has only a light and unsteady grasp on it. Control is everything in a witcher, but what lives in Eskel is deeper than what they know how to handle in Kaer Morhen, and nobody here taught him how to tame it. 

So when it suddenly burns in his fingertips he doesn't really know what to do with it. His mind is clearly set on his goal and that is enough for the signs and few minor spells he can perform, chaos bowing to willpower obediently. It can't be much different now and so he simply pictures what he wants to happen, forms a vivid image of Geralt healed, his body mended. Gently Eskel bends over him and with the chaos in his fingertips almost sizzling brushes a hand over the wounds on Geralt's chest. 

There is nothing Eskel can do against what happens next. On the contact of his tingling fingertips with Geralt's pale skin the chaos suddenly bursts forward, surging. Eskel thinks he can hear a hissing sound in the air and feels the shock of the touch as Geralt falls into convulsions, uncontrolled muscle spasms raking his body as he gasps for air even more frantically than before and audibly with less success. Eskel pulls his hand back as fast as he can, eyes wide in horror at what he has caused. He can feel the chaos inside him ripple at the strange contact. It takes not long for the spasms to subside and all that's leftover is a soft tremor running through Geralt's limbs, his briefly sped up breathing just as laboured as before but slowly calming down again. 

All of the emotions he's still capable of feeling running wild Eskel stands with his hand hanging uselessly in the air. He cannot explain what happened, how. Geralt should be used to Eskel's magic, having felt it countless times before in all those nights when Eskel had been running his hands over Geralt's skin and their chaos had risen to the surface of their bodies to meet. It must be Eskel's lack of control or his emotional upheaval, and he realises with horror that he might have made it worse, that he could have killed Geralt with his imprudent decisions, entirely without using the silver dagger.

And would it have been worse for Geralt to die like this, filled with Eskel's magic in his veins and succumbing to what must be familiar power instead of the death Vesemir has mapped out for him, cold silver to his heart like a beast in the woods falling under a witcher's sword? 

Eskel can't decide. He stands for what feels like hours, stands in perfect silence far beyond the point where Geralt lies completely still again, unmoving, only his breathing moving his chest, the last sizzle of magic long since gone. When Eskel can move again he very carefully rearranges Geralt's shirt, making sure to avoid any skin contact lest another brush with magic could send Geralt into convulsions again. When he's done he continues to clean the room up, put the bloodied rags away and goes to change the water in the washing bowl. As he moves around the magic inside himself settles down again and returns to its usual dormant state. 

He cleans the room and then sits in the one chair Geralt had and never used, not when he could lounge in Eskel's room, spreading out over Eskel's bed or the floor, elegantly splayed or twisted into shapes only their young bodies can find comfortable. Ever since the trials and their move to individual rooms after years spent in a dormitory it was always Geralt who slipped into Eskel's space and never the other way around.

But now it is Eskel who sits in Geralt's room and watches and waits, and dares not to hope that he is waiting for anything else but Geralt's death, the silence of his heartbeat, a pause in the gasping fight for air. It sounds exhausting and painful, and Eskel does not know how long Geralt will hold on, how much more strength he does have after the accidental encounter with Eskel's magic. It could be a thing of hours, or of a day. Tonight. He wonders if someone has arranged the pyre yet and whom he should tell that Geralt never wanted to burn, wanted to be laid to rest in the dark earth and left there to sleep instead of going up to the sky in a heap of smoke and particles of ash. They've had that conversation, all boys going into the trials have it. Death trails an adept just like she follows a witcher, closer maybe even to the adept as life is so very uncertain before the trials. Adepts don't burn on pyres, only witchers do, and Geralt told Eskel that he was glad he didn't have to become ash if he failed the trials, that he'd get a grave like every dead adept does.

So Eskel sits, sits until the shadows fall long and longer, sits until it is dark in the room and he cannot sit anymore. He then slips to the floor, folds his legs, and allows his tired mind to find rest in meditation. But even there Geralt's painful gasping stays with him, floating through the calm depth of Eskel's empty thoughts. 

The days pass like this, with Eskel kneeling or sitting or pacing, wiping blood from Geralt's lips with an endless procession of clean rags. He opens the window and closes it again, he paces and wanders the room, his mind turning around itself. He slips into the kitchen to pick up food or water for himself, and returns quickly to find that nothing has changed. Geralt remains aloof, unmoving, deathly pale. He is sunken into his own struggle, fighting death every inch of the way, stubborn as he has ever been. 

On the little table the silver dagger gleams, a threat in the low light, and Geralt's painful gasps follow Eskel into his meditation every time he tries. They break the silence he needs, ruin his concentration, tether him to the horror of the present. He can hear them when he's somewhere at the other end of the fortress, on his short walks, in the kitchen. He thinks he will never sleep peacefully again, the dreadful sound of Geralt's struggle forever burnt into his mind.

On the second night he snaps. He can't stand this anymore, can't carry the burden of the rasping sound and the silver threat of the dagger. He sits on the bed, not minding that the sheets are no longer clean, and gently wipes the blood from Geralt's lips with his thumb. His voice almost breaks, but he manages a coarse whisper. 

"Listen, I can't - "

He falters, lost in the swirling thoughts. He has ceased to have control over the bulging shape in his stomach hours ago. But this is the wrong way to start. So he tries again.

"Don't make me do it, brother. I can't put this silver through your heart."

He places his hand on Geralt's shirt right above his heart to emphasise the point, the heartbeat rattling Eskel's bones like this, much more so than it usually does. His hand tightens, Geralt's ruined shirt bunched up in Eskel's fist. 

"Be kind, the kindest you can be. Will you do that for me, one last thing?"

Geralt's chest heaves, rises and falls in what is more a contraction than a breath of air. Eskel's hand twisted in the dirty fabric follows the movement with it.

"Remember when you said you'd let me do anything to you? Let me bury you. I promise you won't have to burn on a pyre, you'll have a grave instead, just like you wanted. I'll dig you one."

He can barely speak, but he has to make the promise, so that Geralt can be reassured. It might be the last thing Eskel will do for him, but gods above, he will do it. 

"I'll dig you a grave and you'll admit for once that you were wrong, and that it's alright to lose. You can go, brother, you don't have to be stubborn. It's alright. I promise it's alright."

Eskel needs to stop and draw a breath, clinging to what is left of his composure, pushing down what is threatening to burst through his throat. His own breathing is shaky, unstable, sending his words into a stutter. The temptation to tear the blindfold off Geralt's face and look at him again just for one last time before they will bury him in a grave Eskel will dig is almost overwhelming. Eskel wants to rip the dirty fabric away and skim his fingers over the familiar face, gently trace high cheekbones and Geralt's poor too-many-times-broken nose, kiss his closed eyes and guess at what colour lies underneath the thin skin of his eyelids. Are his irises still amber or have the second trials mutated them further, into something Eskel can't imagine? It's difficult to accept the reality that he will never now. 

His hands don't move. One lies on Geralt's chest, heavy, twisted into the fabric like a punch that never met its aim. 

Eskel's pleading echoes into the silence of the room unanswered. Geralt keeps on breathing, and none of his gasps are a reply to Eskel's promises. 

Night falls and Eskel remains where he is sitting, repeating his pleadings in his head but not speaking anymore. It's the loudest silence he will ever hear. 

As the morning of the third day slowly approaches he awakes from his meditative stupor, his fitful night. He isn't rested but his eyes are dry and he can clear his throat and leave the room, cast one glance back at Geralt who is maybe breathing a little less forced, trying a little less, maybe loosening his grasp on life just like Eskel could finally let go of his shirt. 

Eskel's feet carry him downwards, through the corridors of the fortress. It is silent, everybody still asleep as it is barely morning yet. In the first light of the day he finds the shovel and goes to make good on his promise. On the graveyard he finds a spot he thinks will work, the grass high enough to ensure that he won't uproot a grave already occupied by another boy who wanted to become a witcher and never opened amber eyes. It's a fresh spot, a calm one. 

So he digs. The soft Kaedwen soil gives easily at first, opening under his assault, dark and heavy earth. He piles it next to the grave, thinking about depth and width and how spacious it needs to be. How tall is Geralt, and does the grave need to be much longer? Eskel lies down, takes his own body length as measurement and sets to work.

There is a meditative calm in this he would not have expected. It's heavy work but not too much for a young witcher like Eskel, shoulders and arms trained to wield heavy blades and carry armour and serve him in battle. His mind tries to wander as he digs but he firmly tethers it into place, forces his concentration on every move of the shovel, every heap of almost black soil piling up next to the grave that is slowly finding its unmistakable shape. He watches as the pile grows and steps into the hole to continue to dig deeper, always keeping to the measurements, his own body as a foil. Where Eskel can fit Geralt, always slightly smaller, just a little shorter and thinner will, too. 

The soil is much more alive than he had imagined, thick white maggots wiggling, worms and beetles crawling or rushing to escape the shovel, unearthed from their home. He tries not to think about what that means, but then he's not an idiot. Generations of dead boys have fertilised this soil, have made it rich and alive with their bodies slowly crumbling into the earth, and Geralt will simply be one more of them, nothing special anymore. 

Eskel's boots are soon smeared with wet earth, clumps sticking to his breeches, and his hands are darkened with it. It will stick under his nails for a very long time. He digs and digs, and it's surprisingly slow work even with his witcher's strength. The sun rises and the fortress awakens, but nobody comes near or even seems to notice the strange business Eskel is going about. He simply continues, as if he isn't trying to dig a grave but on his way to find the centre of the earth, straight into the womb of warm and wet darkness. 

The ground around him has risen far above his head when he hears a click of a tongue and finally stills his feverish effort. There's Vesemir standing above him, looking down, his face unreadable. For a moment his gaze wanders around, as if he's appraising Eskel's craftsmanship when it comes to digging graves, has an expert opinion on it. In passing Eskel wonders if it's usually him who digs the graves and knows it is, but the realisation does not seem to have any weight to it. 

Vesemir clears his throat, tilts his head and offers a hand. For a moment they just stare at each other, Eskel with dirty hands and a shovel standing in Geralt's grave which he has dug far too deep, and Vesemir in his neutral appearance, looking just like he does on any day of the year. Eskel stares at his hand and can't comprehend, but Vesemir, normally not patient, waits to be understood. 

When Eskel finally reaches out and takes the hand Vesemir hauls him up as if he weighs nothing, a sensation Eskel has not experienced ever since his trials. They both stand at the edge of the grave and Vesemir takes the shovel from Eskel and puts it down, looking at the pile of earth next to the grave. 

"We can put seeds into the earth later."

His voice is cool, neutral, but Eskel understands and nods. If they seed the earth now the grave will be gone come spring, even though it won't grow over now, it being too late in the year. Maybe some grass will come and help cover the fresh scar in the earth, veil the place where Geralt will be laid to rest in good company close to the boys they have spent their entire life with. 

The shape in Eskel's throat, calmed during the digging by the work of hands and body, starts to expand rapidly again and Eskel breathes. Looking down he sees the hole in the earth he has created, and hopes it will be enough. 

Vesemir turns around, and Eskel has no choice but to follow. Together they walk across the grounds, past the first groups of adepts coming out for the morning drill, past the sounds and smells of a new day. Inside the fortress it is cool and shadowed, and every step upwards is a fight against gravity like Eskel as never known before. His thoughts rush ahead to the room, unable to foretell what they will find there. He doesn't know if Geralt kept his part of the agreement and loosened his grasp on life, let go so that all Eskel has to do now is gently take him and bring him down to lay him into the waiting mouth of the earth. 

He doesn't dare to imagine the other option, the silver dagger pushed into already injured pale skin, blood welling up, a final shudder and then nothingness. But whatever the way, only one outcome is possible and Eskel tries to think calmly of the grave, the heavy, living soil he will heap on Geralt's beautiful body, cover his face and his now bone white hair. 

They arrive in front of the door and there are the mages already waiting, and Eskel feels anger well up. Do they have to be there, can't they let Geralt go in peace? They had their share of him, now he can be Eskel's again, finally out of the reach of all the others who laid claim to him without any grounds to do so, not when Eskel was the only one Geralt always came to and offered himself up to be kept and held and adored. 

So Eskel is still busy trying not to lash out, fighting down his blinding white and hot rage when Vesemir pushes the door open and walks into the room followed by the eager zealots chattering amongst each other, and suddenly Wigo is there as well and Eskel stumbles after them, gnawing on his hatred, the soil from Geralt's grave leaving dark crumbs on the stone floor. 

The bed is empty. 

It takes a moment for Eskel to understand what he is looking at, staring at the sheets soiled with blood, dark stains already dried. The bed is empty and Eskel stares and so do the mages and Vesemir and Wigo, but not at the bed but at a fixed spot in the middle of the room and when Eskel finally understands and follows their gaze the sight of Geralt standing there is like cold water into his face, the shape in his throat suddenly changing its name and meaning and exploding.

The grave suddenly falls away and closes, all its hunger kept for a different body, for another year. The earth will remain alive, but it will not feed on Geralt just yet, for Geralt stands there in the middle of the room, blindfold removed from his face, swaying with the effort of keeping upright but unmistakably and searingly alive. He is dressed differently and seems to have cleaned what remained of his blood off himself to his best ability, and he is breathing calmly, as if there'd never been blood on his lips. He has removed the bandages from his wrists and probably also from his ankles, skin pale and without any colour but undamaged. Around his neck the medallion he must have picked up from the little bedside table hangs in its usual place between the folds of his fresh shirt and he's holding the silver dagger in his hands, loosely, as if he can't decide what he should think about the scenario.

Eskel sighs almost inaudibly, feeling his heartbeat speed up and out of habit reaching out, finding both Vesemir's and Wigo's slow witcher pulse and the mages' hearts with their fluttering excitement and then in the distance the echo of Geralt, morphed and different, but still somehow so very familiar. His eyes are still amber, Eskel realises. It doesn't make sense that he is alive, that he has healed this quickly when barely twelve hours ago he was still bloodied and barely breathing, and yet Eskel does not find himself in a position to question what he sees.

He can barely register the leader of the zealots spring forward in excitement, close to clapping his hands together in realisation of his victory. His experiment is alive, for the first time in all the years of trial and error.

"What have I said, Vesemir, and did you believe me? No, you did not. But now you can't deny I was right all along. Three days and now he's fine."

There's triumph in Master Zenob's voice, the mage rushing forward in his excitement, hands fluttering like eccentric birds. He crosses through the room towards Geralt who remains perfectly still under the scrutinizing gaze.

"And mostly intact, though we will of course have to conduct a few tests to see about that, won't we, Folmar? Extended tests, yes, but so far I'm satisfied."

Circling Geralt like a colourful vulture Master Zenob sounds more than satisfied with the outcome of his experiment. Eskel can see Geralt shift his weight just a little, tension building in his shoulders. The mage keeps prattling on, stopping next to Geralt, passing a curious glance over him. There is nothing truly friendly about the mage's excitement, nothing that pertains to Geralt's personal survival. Every witcher knows that the mages don't particularly care who survives and who doesn't. Playing with mutations is a deadly game, but for the sorcerers conceiving the trials it's nothing but that. Adepts are material for their attempts at creation, and while dead material is placed aside living flesh can be prodded further. It doesn't matter if the adepts and witchers have souls, and the mages don't care for their hearts as long as they are beating in proper slowness. 

Eskel has known that all his days, but it has never hurt as much as in this moment, when Geralt is worth everything for Eskel and nothing for the men who hold his life in their hands. 

"The hair is unfortunate, but alas, mistakes happen. If that's the worst I'd say it was a success."

With a hand stretched out it's clear that Master Zenob wants to touch Geralt's hair, under the sweat and blood bone white and marrow grey and falling over his shoulders, and Eskel already knows that this is not a good idea. Geralt's body language is clear as the day, and none of the witchers present are surprised when the mage's hand gets nowhere close to him. 

It's a fast reaction, Geralt catching the wrist of the mage in a fluid movement before forcing him back, using too much strength and sending the little sorcerer stumbling backwards. Master Zenob, not trained in any sort of combat art and not expecting any resistance squeals like a kicked squirrel. He takes two steps backwards awkwardly, trips over the hem of his long robes and falls to the ground in a heap of colourful fabric. 

Nobody moves to help him up. Next to Eskel Wigo snorts and tilts his head a little, Vesemir remains unmoving and even Master Folmar seems unwilling to intervene or even help Zenob up. So the mage just keeps sitting on the floor staring up at Geralt, who is now looking more exhausted by the minute, frowning deeply. He seems surprised that the mage went down so easily, as if he hadn't even intended this to happen.

"Don't touch me."

He sounds exhausted, too, voice gravelly and thick, still poised on the balls of his feet leaning his weight slightly forward, ready to move again. Yet there is an uncertainty about him, as if he doesn't know where to go from the situation he currently is in, and it even seeps into his voice. It's an unusual thing for Geralt, who always knows or at least pretends to know what is supposed to happen, utterly confident and cocksure even in moments of utter stupidity. Now he only closes his eyes and exhales, as if he's trying to recover his composure and figure out what is supposed to happen next. The frown on his forehead deepens.

Then he decides, opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the light and sets himself into motion. Walking past Master Zenob still sitting on the floor he crosses the room and stops in front of Vesemir. For a moment they both look at each other and when Geralt moves again it's to offer the silver dagger he has been holding for the entire time for Vesemir to take. 

"Try steel next time."

He sounds a little less uncertain and when Vesemir takes the dagger from his hands without pausing simply turns, and walks past all of them through the open door, out of the room into the corridor. Behind him remain the stunned mages, Vesemir turning the sleek dagger in his hands and exchanging a glance with Wigo, and Eskel, still barely able to comprehend what has happened, confused, yet completely sure in his one decision. He turns and rushes out of the room, following Geralt. 

It's not difficult to catch up with him. He's barely down the corridor, walking slowly, slightly swaying on his feet, head hanging a little. It's clear that he's wrung out from being upright, barely capable of staying on his feet anymore. Nevertheless he moves forward with determination, one foot in front of the other. Eskel feels like he should hasten to catch up, but in reality he needs nothing more than a few steps before he is next to Geralt. 

"Brother, wait for me."

Geralt turns his head a little to the side, still frowning, but he doesn't stop. He simply moves on, or tries to, because Eskel hinders his slow flight with a hand on his shoulder. He barely touches Geralt, palm to the fabric of his shirt, can almost feel the muscles underneath when Geralt violently flinches and twists out of Eskel's grasp. It reawakens memories of the accident with his magic and Eskel pulls his hand back automatically. That doesn't stop Geralt from nearly loosing his balance, and as he stumbles he turns away, backwards, crashing into the wall of the corridor. His back collides with the rough stones and the impact bows him forward, hands on his knees to stabilise himself. 

Eskel can only stare at him in surprise. Geralt has never flinched from his touch before, not in all the years they have spent together, not when they have always been used to each other, grown up sharing a bed long before they ever thought of doing more than just seeking warmth and companionship with each other. 

For a moment they just stand in the corridor, Geralt leant against the wall bent forwards and Eskel staring down at him, the top of his head, the terrible and improbable white of his hair still matted with sweat and dirtied with blood. He doesn't dare to move, just listens to Geralt's slightly too fast and still painful sounding breathing and the irregularity of his heartbeat. He smells of pain and underneath it all still the earthy scent Eskel has recognised as death, as if the bleak prospect of nothingness keeps clinging to his skin. 

It's Geralt who speaks first. He's been staring at the ground, frowning while squinting against the soft light of a calm autumn day in the corridor. He barely raises his head and Eskel can't really see his face with his dirty hair hanging around it, but detects how much strength it costs him to simply remain upright, nevermind the fact that the wall he's no longer leaning on but pressed against offers stability his own body can no longer provide. 

"Your boots are dirty."

It's such a pointless remark, but Eskel looks down on himself and of course is still covered in dirt, dark soil clinging to his boots and breeches. Without thinking he tells the truth. 

"I've been digging a grave for you."

Geralt lifts his head so very slowly that Eskel has time to regret his words and wants to pull them back or launch into an explanation, but it's too late already. For a moment Geralt's eyes find his face and Eskel sees him trying to keep them open against the light, pupils constricted into thin slits and yet obviously letting in far too much light. The pain from a brightness Eskel does not see is clearly written on his features but there is something else and for a split second Eskel catches the waft of pure and utter desperation. Then Geralt drops his head again, focuses on his hands on his knees, long fingers digging into the leather of his breeches. His shoulders shiver for a moment and Eskel thinks he might cry, but he doesn't. Nothing changes in the rhythm of his breathing and his heartbeat remains the same. 

He wants to say something and tries to find the right words, but before they can assemble on his tongue there are steps in the corridor and Vesemir appears next to them. In his hands he's holding the blindfold Geralt had worn ever since he had been brought up from the basement and then pulled off himself and abandoned on the bed. 

At first he says nothing, doesn't have to. His whole attention is fixed on Geralt, looking down at him with unreadable scrutiny. As always Eskel can't feel anything that Vesemir might be thinking, nothing but his slow heartbeat, out of synch with Eskel's and even Geralt's slightly faster hearts. Then Vesemir tilts his head, having waited for long enough. 

"Come, boy. You need rest."

Eskel wants to say something but Geralt nods slowly, turning ever so slightly towards Vesemir who reaches out and offers the blindfold without a word. Geralt wants to reach out and take it but his hands are shaking violently now, and Vesemir realises it at the same time as Eskel does. So he keeps it and as Geralt drops his useless hands to his knees again simply leans forward and without further ado wraps it around Geralt's head, ties it into a firm knot on the back of his head, probably like he's done for the first time days ago down in the basement. 

With the black fabric wrapped around his head Geralt again looks like a man about to be executed, which is ridiculous given that he's just narrowly escaped a sure and terrible death. But to Geralt himself the blindfold seems to be a relief and he exhales, his shoulders dropping slightly. Vesemir doesn't wait for anything else, moves in and takes him by the arm, a strong hand wrapped around his biceps, not touching skin but only fabric. Taking a step he pulls Geralt off the wall and half drags half guides him forward, through the corridor towards the stairs. Eskel can hear the chatter of the mages in the room behind him, and knows that Wigo is standing in the door frame looking down the corridor, observing Vesemir leading Geralt away, Eskel standing there. 

So Eskel does nothing, simply watches as both Vesemir and Geralt continue their slow walk and finally reach the staircase leading downwards. As they begin their descent Eskel considers following, and then realises that he is not welcome. It's clear to him that Vesemir is taking Geralt back to the basement, to the calm and dark little cell all freshly made witchers wake up in, the darkness and complete silence balm on still too sharp senses. Eskel spent a few days down there, everybody does, and it makes sense that Geralt would now, too, resting his body and finding his balance again, adjusting. Briefly Eskel feels jealous that it's Vesemir bringing him down and not Eskel, who of course knows the way and can easily take Geralt's bodyweight himself. A small part of him feels deprived, wants to take Geralt and bring him not even don to the cell but back to Eskel's clean and comfortable bed, pull the curtains close and undress both of them. In his mind Eskel can almost see himself wrap his own body around Geralt, offer himself as a hiding place and respite from the loud and too bright world, silence against his chest with only Eskel's heartbeat as company while Geralt rests until he can rise again, shining and bright. 

He isn't ashamed to admit to himself that he wants that, not only for Geralt but also for himself, to cling to his brother's warm and breathing body to defeat the hole that still sits hungry and waiting outside. 

But Eskel can be patient if he must be. He can wait a few days, will wait for Geralt to re-emerged from the darkness of the little cell, well rested and adjusted so they can meet again and figure out what happened, and then he can explain why he's been digging the grave in the first place and Geralt will understand, will laugh and kiss Eskel and say his name, not the slurred whisper from his dreams but strongly and with confidence. They will lounge in bed again and go out to fight monsters, and when the long winter will be over maybe even leave Kaer Morhen and venture onto the path together as they have promised each other. Geralt is alive. It will be fine. 

And with that freshly found confidence Eskel turns around, see Wigo look at him with a strange and unusual sadness behind his amber eyes and nods with conviction before setting himself into motion. Walking at a sharp pace he nearly starts to run as he reaches the stairs, eager to go and close the wound he has torn into the dark Kaedwen earth, to clean his body afterwards, to move on from this. He breaks out of the fortress and rushes past the drill grounds towards the graveyard, unable to keep a calm demeanour, drawing surprised glances from the adepts working on their sword technique with Bogumil.

The sun shines, Geralt is alive, and Eskel reaches for the shovel that still lies where they had left it with all the fever of a man who needs to believe that things will be fine, who needs work and to keep his hands busy against the small gnawing voice in the back of his mind reminding him of the smell of desperation coming from Geralt, the pain in his still amber eyes, his broken posture. A few days in the dark and it will be alright, and Eskel attacks the pile he has amassed next to the grave with vigor because he has to, because he needs to believe that things will be alright, because there cannot be another way. 

Heavy soil and moving worms topple back into the empty hole, filling it up, until the ground is levelled again and nothing but a dark wound remains amongst the already overgrown graves. It will take a long time for grass to grow over the plot now that the earth remains unseeded and unfed, hungry for something it has been promised but has not received and will still long for all through the dark weeks of the cold winter that is yet to come.


End file.
